


You Can Dress Me (in your clothes)

by cacoethes79 (FaeryQueen07)



Series: Forty Six and 2 [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Knotting, M/M, Marking, Transgender, Transsexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/cacoethes79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been ten years since Stiles met Derek that fateful afternoon in the woods with Scott and he never would have guessed, way back then, that things would turn out like this. There’s absolutely nothing about how his life has turned out that he would change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Dress Me (in your clothes)

**Author's Note:**

> To be fair, the knotting is vague and not explicit.

Derek is just coming in from his early morning run when Stiles wakes up, and there’s this moment, between his last sleeping breath and first his first waking one, where Stiles can feel everything Derek is feeling: contentment, pride, refreshed from being outside and letting the wolf run. He lets his eyes fall closed again and he reaches for the place inside himself that’s tied to Derek, the bond that will stretch as far they need it to and never break. He smiles as he yawns himself awake fully and throws back the sheet.

It’s still early Spring, so Stiles tugs on a pair of Derek’s boxers from the mountain of clean clothes that need folding, and pulls Derek’s t-shirt from the night before out from beneath a pillow, slipping it on. The shirt is old and worn, the collar stretched wide so that it slips down over one of Stiles’ shoulders. It would be annoying— _is_ annoying—but it’s soft and smells like Derek so he overlooks the rest.

He makes his way downstairs on near silent feet after making a pit-stop to brush his teeth and use the bathroom, and pads into the kitchen where the sun is streaming bright and relentless through the windows while Derek puts a pot of coffee on. He looks like he’s getting ready to make breakfast, but he pauses to crowd Stiles up against the counter, to slide warm hands under the shirt Stiles is wearing as he presses his nose to Stiles’ neck. He nips the skin there, sucks a bruise that will be dark and obvious later, then steps away.

“It’s not even 7am. I thought it was Rule Number One of being Stiles is to never be awake before noon on a Saturday?”

“I figured if I came down and bothered you enough, you’d make pancakes.”

“I can do pancakes,” Derek agrees.

He does. It had been a revelation for Stiles to discover Derek could—and would, readily—cook, and he takes a certain amount of joy in watching Derek work. Especially when Derek is wearing nothing more than a pair of sleep pants. Stiles is by no means a scrawny boy, running with a pack of wolves and his own regimented exercise routine has seen to that, but Derek is _built_ and Stiles has no problem admitting that watching the muscles in Derek’s back shift and bulge beneath his skin gets him hot.

Stiles hops up onto the end counter, the part they use as a bar when they have company, taking the cup of coffee Derek hands him and he grins over the rim as he watches Derek wreak havoc upon their kitchen. When Derek passes by, Stiles hooks him with an ankle and pulls him in.

“I want fruit compote,” he murmurs as he leans in for a kiss. Derek rolls his eyes and goes to retrieve the ingredients from the fridge.

“I will never understand how you haven’t gained a hundred pounds eating the way you do.” He waves away Stiles’ rehearsed speech. “Yes, yes, I know. Metabolism like a werewolf and running with a pack.” But not the Adderall. Stiles stopped taking it midway through college at Derek's insistence and his ADD has eased in its intensity over the years.

Derek mixes, cooks, stirs and flips. The first pancake, as always, is a little too burnt, the shape not quite right, and Stiles watches mournfully as it is tossed into the compost bucket. The second pancake is near perfect and this one Derek passes over once he’s certain it’s cooled down enough. Stiles groans as he takes a bite.

“Delicious. You know what would make it taste even better?”

Derek beats him to the punch, sliding a small bowl of the compote over. His eyes are alpha-red and hunger-dark as he watches, and Stiles can’t help it. He dips his fingers into the bowl and brings them, slick with the juice of the cooked berries, to his mouth, licking them clean.

“Stiles,” Derek growls, turning off the burner and setting aside the rest of the pancake batter.

The low rumble of his voice has shivers of anticipation racing up Stiles’ spine. Then Derek is there, pushing his way between Stiles’ thighs. His hands slip up under the boxers and he teases stroking his fingers over Stiles’ dick. It feels amazing; every time they do this, Stiles can’t help but continue to feel surprised that he’s here, that he’s finally where he’s wanted to be.

He reaches down with one hand and tangles his fingers in Derek’s hair, tugging to get him closer to where Stiles wants him. Derek grins, a flash of wicked but human teeth, and hooks his fingers in waistband of Stiles’ boxers, pulls them down and tosses them aside. Then he’s pushing Stiles flat against the counter, shoving the t-shirt up out of the way so he can press his face into the curve of Stiles’ stomach, just beneath his bellybutton where he’s warm and soft and vulnerable.

Stiles gasps. There had been some concern, when he’d started researching the different methods for bottom surgery, about how much sensation he’d have with each type, and while he knew metoidioplasty offered both sensation and the ability to become erect unaided, Stiles had wanted more. Derek had the left the decision up to him, only offering advice when it became clear that Stiles was stressing himself out.

Which is how they’ve ended up here, with Stiles able to feel the slick slide of Derek’s tongue along the underside of his cock, the drag of Derek’s nail over the crown. And yeah, it’s a bit disappointing to know that Stiles can’t get it up without the aid of a rod inserted into his dick—the idea of the pump had completely freaked him out—but it’s a very small disappointment in the face of so many amazing things that he doesn’t really give it much thought.

Derek pulls him closer to the edge of the counter to swallow him down, and Stiles can’t help the wrecked sound that escapes when he feels his cock hit the back of Derek’s throat. He grips the counter hard and thrusts up. Then he jolts, breath leaving him in a gasp as Derek presses one slick finger inside him.

"Oh _fuck_."

"I fully intend to," Derek rumbles.

To emphasize his point, he slides a second finger in, followed closely by a third, stretching Stiles quickly. It's only as Derek lifts Stiles down, and turns him around to brace against the counter that Stiles realizes what Derek is using in place of lube.

"Ugh, dude, is that even hygienic?"

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek replies, smearing the last of the butter onto his dick. Then he's pushing in, opening Stiles up and filling him.

Derek lays a hand against Stiles' belly to hold him in place, his claws grazing the skin there. It's tempting to push into them, to feel them sink into his flesh and he knows Derek wants to do it as much as Stiles does. He _likes_ wearing Derek’s marks, doesn’t mind the scars as long as they have a purpose and Derek is the one to put them there.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek growls, and he licks over the back of Stiles’ neck, over the tattoo there. “You would let me mark you all over.”

And yeah, Stiles is going to have to work on his lack brain-to-mouth filter during sex.

He can feel the vibrations of Derek’s laugh all along his back where they’re pressed together and he deliberately clenches down, dragging a long groan from Derek. “Stop listening in on my unintentionally-external monologues and fuck me, asshole,” he demands, but he can’t keep the grin from his voice.

Derek shifts his grip to Stiles’ hips, lets his claws sink into the scars already there from all the other times they’ve done this, and he fucks in hard. He sets a brutal pace, thrusting hard enough to lift Stiles onto his toes and it feels amazing. Stiles whines a little, pushes back into every shove of Derek’s hips and feels like he’s seconds away from flying apart. Yeah, he can’t get _hard_ on is own, but Stiles can still come, so when Derek’s fingers wrap around his dick, sure and strong, Stiles lets out a gasping shout and does just that.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek whines, and then he’s draping himself over Stiles’ back, tongue sliding over the tattoo centered on his neck and following suit, his knot swelling, locking him in place.

They stay tied together like that and Stiles knows he’s still rambling, though he can’t tell what he’s saying and doesn’t know how to stop. Derek’s hands slide down his sides, his fingers gentle as he touches the bleeding marks where his claws cut into Stiles and it should hurt, _does_ hurt, but in a good, achy kind of way. When Derek is finally able to pull out, it’s with a wet sound that leaves Stiles blushing, cheeks heating further when he feels the slick slide of Derek’s come slipping out of him.

“Look at you.” Derek’s voice is hushed, reverent, and it makes Stiles shiver to hear it.

Derek drops to the ground behind Stiles and he knows what’s coming, pushes his hips back, unashamed. The first swipe of Derek’s tongue is to the inside of his thigh, catching the remnants of his seed and chasing it back up to the source, to where Stiles knows he’s still open. There’s a long moment where Derek just stares, probably like a smug bastard, but Stiles waits him out. He’s gotten good at this part, at not hiding himself from Derek’s gaze.

His knees threaten to give out when Derek presses in with a thumb, and he groans as more of Derek’s come slips out. He’s a mess, can’t be anything but at this point, but the way Derek hums low in his throat, the sense of pride emanating from him, washes away any shame Stiles might feel. A rough, ragged cry forces its way out of him when Derek leans in and licks him there and his fingers clutch at the counter as his legs finally give out. He nearly falls, but is saved by Derek’s firm grip.

It’s a lot. Almost too much, because he’s so sensitive right now, and it’s a relief when Derek finally pulls away with just a final press of his lips to the curve of Stiles’ ass. He turns Stiles around, laps at the small puncture marks his claws left until they close, then stands and straightens his clothes. When Derek pauses, eyes going unfocused, Stiles recognizes the look immediately..

“Oh my god, who is it?”

“Scott, I think. He might have people with him.”

They both drop their gazes to the bottom of the cabinet where Stiles’ come is splattered and Stiles feels his face go hot. “Right. I’ll clean this up. You finish cooking.”

Derek laughs, palms the back of Stiles’ neck, right over his mark and returns to the stove while Stiles furiously scrubs at the counter and floor. He’s just tossing the wet towel into the washing machine when he hears the front door open and he takes another moment to calm his racing heartbeat. There’s nothing Stiles can do about the scent of ‘recently fucked’ clinging to him, but he thinks that’s what Scott gets for making an unannounced visit.

It isn’t just Scott. Stiles can hear multiple voices and he wonders if maybe Derek used his ninja texting skills to tell everyone they’re having pancakes. He very manfully _doesn’t_ pout at the idea of having to share and makes his way into the kitchen. Scott is standing just inside the door looking faintly offended, Allison at his side with one hand resting on her barely-protruding belly. Lydia is sitting, her stomach bulging in a way Stiles thinks must be uncomfortable. Jackson has his head in the fridge, but he pokes it out long enough to wolf-whistle at Stiles, making him blush.

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters.

“I told them we should have called.” Danny smiles as he talks and Stiles isn’t sure if he wants to punch the bastard or hug him. He settles for trying to distract Derek with a kiss as he steals another pancake. There’s bacon just beginning to cook, too, and Stiles inhales the scent deeply.

“So, what’s the occasion?” he asks, sliding into the chair beside Lydia.

He’s careful to keep his hands to himself, but he wants to touch, wants to press his hands against her stomach to feel his and Derek’s babies move. It’s weird, knowing that there are two soon-to-be humans—or werewolves, they won’t know until after they’re born—incubating that share their DNA. It should be impossible, would have been, had Lydia not helped him research the entire process, and yet, in just another two months, they will be real.

Lydia huffs, but she doesn’t sound nearly as annoyed as she does when it’s Jackson or Danny—the entire pack has been pretty taken with the dual pregnancies—and she reaches over to take his hand. Stiles lets her guide it to the best place and when he presses down, he can feel an elbow. Or a knee.

“We were actually coming over to see if you guys wanted to go out for breakfast. Scott planned to bribe you out of bed by promising to pay your share.”

Stiles glares over at Scott, communicating just how displeased he is that Scott thinks he’s that easy to lure out of bed. Then a plate of pancakes, fruit compote and bacon magically appears before him—and Lydia—and Stiles digs in happily.

“Fuck you, dude,” he says around his second bite. He grins evilly when Derek bypasses Scott to serve Allison, Danny and Jackson. “What’s the plan for the rest of the day.”

“Whatever it is, it better be taking place where I can sit down. My ankles are swollen and it’s exhausting toting around two parasites day in and day out.”

“But you do it so glowingly,” Derek replies, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. He’s only half-joking and manages to dodge the hand flapping at his face. “It’s a nice day out. We could drive to the beach?”

A cheer goes up, muffled by the mouths full of food. Stiles spares a moment to feel smug over the fact that he has rubbed off on everyone in this regard. He’s just eyeing the stack of pancakes still left when the sound of car doors slamming reaches his ears. He shoots a puzzled look at Derek.

“Figured if the brats were invading, I might as well invite the sheriff, Allison's dad and Scott’s mom.” Derek casts a wary glance at Allison. “No offense, but your mother tends to kill my appetite.”

Allison shrugs. “She does that to me, too. I haven’t actually spoken to her since I told them I was pregnant. My dad is thrilled. My mom? Not so much.” Allison manages to sound pissed rather than bitter.

“We’re here,” Stiles’ dad calls out, and just like that, the tension that was just beginning to build dissipates and everyone relaxes.

“Back here, dad!”

As Sheriff Stilinski, Mr. Argent and Melissa settle in at the table, Derek rummaging for three extra folding chairs, the conversation switches over to baby names, shopping plans and the upcoming baby showers. It feels good like this, having everyone that matters gathered close. He misses Danny's boyfriend, Cody—who is off visiting family—and his cutting humor, hopes to fuck Jackson will finally get his arse in gear and propose to _his_ girl, but they aren’t quite as important as the people already sitting in Stiles’ kitchen. They aren’t pack.

Yet.

Stiles knows they will be, soon, so he’s happy to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> This is set approximately ten years after episode one, which makes Stiles 26 and Derek 32. He is now post-op, top & bottom surgery. I waffled on that for a bit because I know a large percentage of transmen don’t get the bottom surgery, but Stiles really wanted it. And since I’m so hard-pressed to deny him, I gave the young man what he asked for. There’s backstory not included in here and maybe one day I’ll get around to writing it. For now, just play along. The title is from Audiafauna’s Dress Me.


End file.
